


The Best in the Galaxy

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Series: Sekhmet [5]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Argentina National Team, FC Barcelona, First Time, Future Fic, Future Gladiators AU, Gods, M/M, Porn With Plot, Real Madrid CF, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:16:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9621866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: Cris’ fingers itch for his sword. It’s safely tucked in the sheath on his belt, always at hand. But hearing Messi’s whips crack through the air, sizzling with energy, has gotten his blood pumping. After a minute of simply watching, Cris reaches for his own shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it onto the ground carelessly. He rolls his neck, shaking out his shoulders and arms, loosening his body in preparation.He’s tired of watching.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yulin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/gifts).



> ***Please note***
> 
> Technically this is a prequel to [When the Battle is Over](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9545417). But you should read that story first because it sets up and explains this universe. Please read this story second :)

Cris doesn’t socialize much with the other fighters on Sekhmet. He doesn’t need companionship, and he certainly doesn’t need to make friends with those he might end up fighting later on in the arena. It’s given him a bit of a reputation for being standoffish, but he doesn’t care. The only thing he cares about is winning.

He’s the best in the galaxy.

And to be the best, he needs to keep himself in shape. He needs to train at all hours of the day. He needs to train before most of the planet has woken up, and he needs to continue to train even after most of them have gone to sleep. Because after the spectators go home, and the audience stops watching, that's when his work really begins. That training will save his life one day—it’ll keep the fatigue at bay when his opponents think he’s faltering.

And he’ll win to fight again once more.

That need to move, to fight, to run… It gets under his skin, and it’s what sends him to the practice arena despite the early hour. He knows he’ll be alone, and that’s the way he likes it.

To be the best is to be alone.

Except, it turns out, as he pushes the heavy doors aside to enter the arena, he’s not alone.

Messi is there, bare to the waist, whirling his energy-whips around and around as if he’s fighting an invisible enemy. The designs upon his skin are blurring as he moves, the bright colors on his arm being the only thing to catch the dim light. He’s dripping with sweat, as if he’s been there for hours, and his hair is falling into his face. But it doesn’t stop him, and instead, he continues to spin and dance, lashing out every few seconds to strike his imaginary foe.

Cris’ fingers itch for his sword. It’s safely tucked in the sheath on his belt, always at hand. But hearing Messi’s whips crack through the air, sizzling with energy, has gotten his blood pumping. After a minute of simply watching, Cris reaches for his own shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it onto the ground carelessly. He rolls his neck, shaking out his shoulders and arms, loosening his body in preparation.

He’s tired of watching.

Cris takes a step forward then, hand on the hilt of his blade, waiting for Messi to acknowledge him. It wouldn’t do to just charge in without any notice—Messi would likely end up killing them both with his energy-whips, not realizing Cris only wants to spar. Still, despite Cris’ tentative step, Messi doesn’t look up, and continues to spin and lunge, fighting against nothing.

Irritated, Cris kicks a loose stone toward Messi, hoping for a reaction.

And he gets one.

Messi snaps one of his whips over towards the pebble before it can go more than a few meters, vaporizing it without skipping a beat as he spins a few more times and falls right back into his routine as if Cris wasn’t there.

Cris growls without meaning to, drawing his sword.

That at least draws Messi’s attention, and the other man slowly comes to a stop, tilting his head curiously as he studies Cris. “Yes?” he asks, chest heaving, glistening from the exertion. He flicks his dark eyes at Cris’ energy sword and then straightens up expectantly.

Cris arches an eyebrow. He takes in Messi’s heavy breathing and obvious perspiration, shaking his head at the idea that people compare the two of them. It’s clear that Messi is no match for him, and despite the fact that they’ve never faced each other, Cris has a strong desire to find out how easily he can take Messi down. “Spar?” Cris eventually asks gruffly, realizing they’re both just standing there and staring at each other.

Messi looks taken aback, but he slowly nods, his whips beginning to swirl around his feet cautiously.

Cris grins and takes another step forward, sensing he has the upper hand.

It would be one thing for Messi to face him when they were both equally rested, but right at this moment, with Messi having obviously been through such a strenuous workout? Cris isn’t worried one bit. Even now, he can see the way Messi’s trembling as he approaches, the smaller man’s fingers squeezing the end of his whips so hard that his knuckles are turning white.

And then they fight.

Cris starts slow, starts easy, tests Messi’s reflexes by jabbing first high and then low. Messi dances away easily enough, more flexible than Cris had imagined, feet sliding on the ground quicker than most people can run. Cris has seen enough of Messi's fights by now that he isn't surprised by this. He isn’t deterred and starts to increase his attacks. He’s the best for a reason, and he’s determined to prove it to both himself and Messi.

The air is soon filled with the sounds of their weapons sizzling—Cris’ sword darting towards Messi’s waist while Messi’s whips snap towards his feet. Cris has the upper hand with his energy sword, and they both know it—both know that if Messi’s whips are caught by the sword they’ll be cut instantly. But somehow, no matter how fast Cris swings, Messi’s able to swirl away without an inch of his body or his weapon being touched.

Cris isn’t sure how long he lunges at Messi, but eventually, he grows frustrated. He can see that Messi’s tired, but no matter what he tries, Messi’s reflexes are still too quick.

Finally, Cris sees an opening.

He can tell that Messi is pulling his blows, fighting more for show than actually with the intent to strike Cris. So Cris changes his strategy. The next time he charges Messi, he does it with his body instead of his weapon.

Messi’s eyes widen, and as expected, the smaller man tries to redirect his whips away from Cris. Unfortunately, while jerking his whip away from where it's about to make contact with Cris' arm, he stumbles over his feet and tumbles off balance.

As a result, Cris ends up slamming them both to the ground. His sword skids across the dirt with the force of the impact, leaving a scorched mark, but it doesn’t matter—he’s got Messi pinned.

And Messi knows it.

Despite that, Messi tries to heave his body up against Cris' weight. But Cris doesn't let up an inch, and Messi soon realizes struggling is futile. Then, Cris notices that although Messi is face down against the ground, his fingers are still stretching for the energy-whips. It's like he's still trying to fight his way up from the dirt, unwilling to give up until he's exhausted all options. Cris respects his spirit, but unfortunately, like Cris’ sword, Messi's whips are too far way to be reached.

Defeated, Messi’s hands claw into the dirt and he lets out a little sigh.

Cris is gleeful.

And some say that Messi’s the best?

He scoffs.

It shouldn’t matter so much to him, but it does. They’re both panting and sweating, but Cris can’t help but lean down harder on Messi so he can whisper into his ear. Nobody else is around, and nobody else will even be up for hours to come, but Cris doesn’t care. “They say you’re a god,” Cris breathes, watching goosebumps spread down Messi’s neck. “We both know that’s the stupidest thing we’ve ever heard.”

Messi doesn’t respond, but he turns his head so he can look at Cris out of the corner of his eye. He’s breathing heavily, taking in long shuddering breaths despite Cris’ weight on top of him. For one second he squirms as if testing Cris’ grip on his wrists. When Cris doesn’t let go, Messi’s hands relax, and he seems to finally accept the situation.

Cris’ heart is thundering through his chest and he can feel Messi’s doing the same. They won’t calm down for awhile now, he’s sure—something that’s normal whenever they fight against worthy opponents. And Cris won’t deny that it was a good fight, no matter how easily he did end up winning.

A win is a win, though.

He’s even a bit aroused at having bested someone as talented as Messi.

Cris laughs, feeling the euphoria rushing through his veins. He drops his head to rest his forehead against Messi’s back, trying to control himself.

Except, then Messi moves the slightest bit, pushing his ass back against Cris.

Cris freezes, taking a deep breath, smelling dirt and sweat and something else entirely new to him. Perhaps it’s an accident. Perhaps Messi’s merely trying to get away again. But, Cris isn’t so sure. He pushes his hips back against Messi, making sure, because he must make sure… He must make sure that Messi’s just as aroused as he is.

And then Messi’s ass pushes back again to meet him, and the smaller man makes a noise of interest.

Cris lets go of Messi’s wrists, sliding his hands down to Messi’s shoulders and then leans up over him. “I’ve never fucked a god,” he says, torn between laughing and taunting. He waits to see if Messi wants to get away again, and when Messi only continues to stare back at him, Cris grins. He ducks down and licks a stripe up Messi’s neck. “You taste like any other man,” he murmurs, enjoying the salt on his tongue.

Messi shudders, lips parting like he’s going to say something. But still, he stays silent.

Cris leans back, taking in the slim figure beneath him. He smooths a hand down Messi’s spine, enjoying the way his tanned skin looks against Messi’s pale body. Then he kneels up, cautiously taking some of his weight off Messi, and fingers the cloth covering Messi’s lower body. Again there’s no response, and Cris gives in to his own curiosity. He begins to pull down the fabric. “I’ve seen statues of you, you know,” he says, as Messi’s plump ass is revealed. “And I’ve wondered.”

Messi stays on the ground, hands no longer held down, but fingers clawing into the dirt again.

Cris knows he’s about to cross a line, one that maybe he shouldn't cross. But he finds that he really wants to continue, and from Messi's silence, he knows Messi wants him to as well.

He slowly moves a hand towards Messi’s ass, finally dropping it down to touch Messi’s bare skin. He can’t stop himself from bringing his other hand down, too, and he grabs two large handfuls, rolling and squeezing. "You are abnormally large, here, for someone so small. But I think the statues don't quite do you justice."

Messi says something that Cris can’t hear, clearing his throat before trying again. “I didn’t ask for those statues,” he croaks out, hands restless against the ground.

“You never have to ask for anything. Do you?” Cris asks, a flicker of annoyance in his voice. “Everything is handed to you, isn’t it? They all just bow down and worship you. Isn’t that right? How many have kissed this ass, hmm?” He lets go of Messi’s body, waiting for a response that never comes.

Cris feels anger churning in his stomach, anger that so many consider this man the best instead of him. “Fools... They call you a god,” he murmurs to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. His eyes travel to Messi’s back, over the strange overlapping tattoos. “Every one for a victory, no?” he mutters, distracted as he scans Messi’s skin. He trails his fingers up to follow some of the whirls and designs curiously, letting the anger bleed from his body. “Impressive, but a strange custom.”

Messi lets him touch, though his body has tensed.

Cris’ fingers smooth over Messi’s shoulder, down his bicep, and over his forearm. This time, Messi shivers and closes his eyes, and Cris pauses. “These are different.” He takes a closer look at the bright colors. “Why?” he asks, strangely curious. “I have never seen such markings on any of the other fighters… Even the ones from Argentina.”

“You would not have,” Messi finally replies, opening his eyes. He looks tired. “They are only for the gods.”

“The gods!” Cris says, making a noise of disgust. “Again with this nonsense.” He simply cannot wrap his mind around the ways of Messi’s people. “Would your people still think you a god,” he asks, leaning down to whisper into Messi’s ear, “if they say you like this? Beneath me?” His body presses against Messi’s, his clothed cock pressing roughly against Messi’s bare ass.

“It would not be allowed!” Messi says, gasping. But he starts spreading his legs in invitation as best he can, despite the fabric around his thighs. “It’s forbidden for a god to lay with one of his people.”

Cris laughs. “Good thing then that I am not one of your people,” he says, breathing hotly into Messi’s ear. “And,” he adds as an afterthought, “that you are *not* a god.” Then he nips at Messi’s ear, sucking the lobe between his teeth.

Messi arches like he’s been cut by one of his own whips, making a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain.

Cris pushes his hips into Messi’s tempting ass, harder this time, driving the other man into the dirt. It’s probably sticking to Messi’s entire chest, but Cris doesn’t care. “Would a god lie like this beneath me?” Cris asks, releasing Messi’s ear to nose down Messi’s neck. His hands skim down Messi’s back, feeling the muscles contract under his touch. “Would a god spread his legs like this?” Cris taunts, reaching Messi’s ass and then teasing at the crease when Messi tries to move into the caress.

Messi doesn’t answer, turning his head away so he can brace his forehead against the ground. The back of his neck is flushed, this time in embarrassment as opposed to being red from the fight. But he moans when Cris’ thumb strokes over his entrance.

“Would a god moan so prettily?” Cris laughs, holding Messi open with one hand so he can watch his thumb press into the man beneath him. "Ohhh, so prettily..."

At that, Messi snaps. “I am not a god!” he shouts, the sound muffled into the dirt. “I have never claimed to be a god, and I did not ask for them to call me one!” Somehow, despite Cris’ weight on his body, he manages to climb to his hands and knees. He doesn’t go any further than that and refuses to look at Cris. “I am not a god,” he repeats more calmly, his voice still shaking while he stares at one of the walls of the arena. “So *fuck* me.”

Cris licks his lips.

"Gladly," Cris croons, nudging his thumb in deeper. Messi is tight around him, squeezing tighter than Cris would have imagined possible. "How many have had you like this, I wonder?" He plasters his body to Messi's, so he can speak in hushed tones. "How many?" he asks again, twisting his thumb and then trying to add another finger.

But Messi makes a sound of pain. “I said it was forbidden,” he breathes.

Cris pauses and several things fall into place.

"Oh," Cris murmurs, resting his head on Messi's shoulder. "I see." He can practically feel the tension that's gathered in Messi's neck. "You may not be a god, but they've treated you like one." He removes his fingers and rubs Messi's lower back. "I admit I am surprised... Do not worry, I can be more careful."

It is a strange feeling, to know that his rival has never been touched in such a way.

It also sparks a fire in his belly--to think that he could have Messi now in a way that no one ever has. He can *conquer* Messi in a way that no one every has.

Cris straightens up, leaving Messi shivering in confusion. But Cris knows what to do. He drags the rest of Messi's clothing down, taking his time as he travels over well-muscled thighs and calves, smoothing a hand over the silky skin appreciatively. Messi barely moves except to lift his feet when directed, and Cris smiles to himself as he tosses his garments to the side.

He strips off his own things quickly, pulling the small tube of oil from his sword belt to keep before he adds the belt to his pile of discarded clothing.

Then, with soft hands, he urges Messi onto his back.

Messi's eyes are unreadable, half hidden by dark hair, and his cheek is smeared with dirt here and there. Sweat is still beading at his forehead, and his hands continue to claw into the ground beneath him. But again, he spreads his thighs invitingly, his cock heavy against his stomach.

Cris reaches down to touch him, ignoring the light layer of dirt dusted across Messi’s body and instead wrapping a hand around Messi's cock. It's thicker than Cris would have imagined, red and dripping already despite Cris having ignored it until now. Messi's lips part instantaneously, another low moan escaping as Cris starts to pump him.

Cris watches him, fascinated, twisting his wrist intently to get Messi to make more sounds. He wants to best Messi at this too, however he can, and he ignores his own pleasure in order to focus entirely on the man under him. One of Messi's hands releases the dirt, going to his own head as if he's not sure what to do. He ends up tugging on his hair, fingers tangling in his dark locks, gasping and shuddering as Cris works him.

When Messi's hand reaches down to stop him--perhaps being on the brink of coming--Cris sits back on his heels.

Messi simply stares back at him then, chest heaving, sweat pooling in the dips of his collarbones and precome leaking across his belly. He's so dirty that it's impossible to see his normally pale skin, but Cris stares back anyways. Messi's pink nipples are furled tightly against his chest, and as Cris watches, he moves a hand to the one over his heart, scraping his palm over the little bud.

Cris laughs when Messi looks nearly astonished at the sensation, his cock twitching in response.

"All these years," Cris says, shaking his head. He scoots into the space between Messi's thighs, reaching for his tube of oil. "All these years and now, finally--," he winks, spilling the oil over his fingers and eyeing them eagerly.

Something about that must rub Messi the wrong way because the other man looks at him balefully. "You think I've been completely untouched all these years?" he says, scoffing. His dark eyes flash for the first time that night, and Cris can see there's something strange in his gaze.

But then it's gone and Messi looks away and flushes. "You don't know," Messi half-heartedly protests, but the way he looks makes Cris think that everything he's just said has been merely bravado.

And so Cris grins. "I know plenty," he murmurs, slipping a finger down between Messi's thighs. "I know what you want, right now, for one." He bites his lip as Messi gasps, and he starts to circle Messi's entrance. "You want something here," he whispers, beginning to increase the pressure when Messi squirms. His other hand grips Messi's knee, moving it up and to the side so he can watch his finger disappear. "You want something you've never felt before."

Messi's face is still turned to the side, but Cris watches the way his throat moves and knows he's right.

It's easy to add more fingers after that, easy with the oil and the way Messi cants his hips to meet him. And Cris loses himself in the moment, loses himself in how tight Messi is around his fingers. He should be worried about how long they've been there, or how easily another fighter could decide to train early--but he isn't. He's strangely obsessed with the way Messi shudders beneath him.

And then when Messi finally turns to face him, when the smaller man tries to pull Cris closer, fingers scrabbling at Cris’ belly, Cris knows it's time.

He's eager, oh he's fucking shaking as he pulls his fingers out and slicks his cock. But still, he goes slow as he pushes in. He's not sure what comes over him, but he's suddenly aware of the way Messi's looking at him. And then he's inside Messi, sheathed in the most gorgeous velvety heat while hands curl themselves in his hair.

"Easy," Cris murmurs when Messi inhales sharply on Cris' first downward thrust.

The second thrust is easier, and so is the third, until each time he moves, Messi’s panting and gasping at the sensation. “All these years and they’ve never let you feel this,” Cris says, ignoring the way Messi pulls on his hair. “You do not have to be a god to feel this,” he says, bending his neck to lick another stripe up Messi’s throat. He can’t help but teasingly suck a pink mark under Messi’s jawline. “We, mortals, make our own pleasure.”

Messi tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting as Cris begins to rock into him harder and harder.

Cris grins. He should be focused on chasing his own pleasure, but he has a strange desire to see Messi fall apart completely. “You cannot truly be a god,” he says, striking that little spot inside Messi to make him see stars. Messi’s nails dig into the back of his neck as a result and Cris laughs. “Because it is clear that no one has ever worshiped you properly, Messi.”

Messi’s mouth moves then, saying something that’s lost in the sounds of their bodies smacking together.

Cris slides a hand up his cheek, ignoring the dirt that sticks to his skin. “I can’t hear you,” he pants out, sweat dripping down his back. Their movements are becoming more frenzied, though none the less enjoyable. “Tell me,” he commands, needing to know. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what you like.”

He shouldn’t care. Messi’s just a gladiator—a fighter like him—and perhaps even one Cris will be forced to fight in the arena one day. He shouldn’t care what Messi wants… Especially when it’s probably something like Messi wanting him to go harder or faster.

And yet…

“I just want you,” Messi pants out, surprising Cris entirely.

“But I—,” Messi stammers then, and Cris leans in expectantly, waiting. “You—you called me Messi,” Messi chokes out, dark lashes fanned out against his cheek. His eyes stay closed, but his nails stop digging into Cris’ neck and shoulders and instead his hands move to cling to Cris’ neck. “It’s Leo,” he breathes, voice slurring a bit as Cris urges him higher and higher. “I’m not—I’m just Leo.”

Cris’ mind is becoming too muddled, his body temperature spiking as he and Messi writhe together. He’s lost control and can no longer tell where he begins and Messi ends. And still, throughout all of this, he hears “Just Leo,” being said over and over until Messi’s face and voice have morphed into Leo’s, and Cris knows that he’ll never be able to go back to Messi ever again. “Leo,” he mouths soundlessly, the name strange and foreign on his tongue, and yet somehow making perfect sense.

Things are fuzzy after that.

Cris hears Leo’s exquisite moans, his cries of ecstasy, and what he thinks is Leo softly calling out “Cristiano” as the other man reaches his peak. But Cris keeps his hips moving, keeps chasing his own pleasure, spurned on by the way that Leo’s shuddering beneath him. And then there are hands gently sliding down his chest, fingers trailing across his lips, and warm eyes peering up at him in encouragement.

Somehow it’s enough, and Cris spills inside Leo, jerking his hips several times until he’s emptied himself.

They both lie there in the dirt as they come down, bodies pressed together despite the heat. Cris keeps his eyes closed, trying to pull himself together, a little unnerved at what’s just happened.

He shouldn’t care.

Leo should still be Messi.

But something’s changed.

Still, Cris tries to recover. “So,” he says, opening his eyes to meet Leo’s. “How long have you been dreaming of this moment?” he asks cockily, raising his head up so he’s hovering over Leo’s. He watches the other man’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before Leo turns to look to the side. “Or maybe gods don’t dream?”

Leo pushes at his chest, and Cris sits back onto his heels.

“We all have dreams,” Leo says faintly, finally looking up at Cris. He shifts his hips uncomfortably and then flicks his eyes down to where Cris is still inside him. “Can you?” he asks, voice sounding rough.

Cris furrows his brow but pulls out, taking his time so that he doesn’t hurt the other man. Leo doesn’t make a sound, but he suddenly scrambles free as soon as he can. Cris is left sitting in the dirt. “What? No thank you,” he spits out, feeling prickly at Leo’s abruptness. “Was I not good enough for you?”

Leo’s dressing as fast as possible, ignoring the mess smeared across his belly and dripping down his thighs. He doesn’t seem to care about dirtying his clothing. When he’s fully dressed, he walks over and picks up his energy-whips. They swirl around his feet and he sighs as if relieved to be reunited with them. Only then does he face Cris.

“Nobody can ever know,” Leo says, looking pained.

Cris stands up, entirely at ease with his nudity. He storms over to Leo and grabs him by the shoulders, ignoring the way Leo’s energy-whips are crackling around his ankles. “Why not?” he asks, feeling the way Leo sways into his touch. “Do not deny that you enjoyed it. Surely the evidence speaks for itself.”

Leo closes his eyes. He looks disheveled—hair askew, skin dirty, clothes ruffled. “I—,” he chokes out, opening his eyes again. “I will dream about it,” he finally says, lips turning up slightly. “But nobody can ever know. It is forbidden for me to…” He trails off, feeling Cris’ hands sliding up his arms and to his neck. “You don't understand... what they would do—I can never—,” he gasps out, as Cris carefully cradles his face.

“I will not say anything,” Cris says, seeing Leo's fear, even if he doesn't completely understand. “It will be our secret,” he promises, wondering what could possibly be so terrible about what they have just done. He has never studied the ways of the people from Argentina, has never felt the need to ask questions about them. He knows that they call Leo a god, but other than that he knows very little about their culture. "Do not worry," he says, trying to ease Leo's mind.

Leo nods, leaning into Cris' hands and closing his eyes. For a few seconds he stays there, and then his eyes snap open and he jerks himself away. He looks at Cris as if he wants to say more, but then he flees, whips crackling around his feet as he disappears.

Cris is left alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Look for more in this universe coming soon :)
> 
>  
> 
> [~Also I'm on tumblr](http://messifangirl.tumblr.com/)


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